


Thrum

by Blackwatch_McCree



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Look this is gross okay I don't even know what all to tag, M/M, Violence, consensual cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackwatch_McCree/pseuds/Blackwatch_McCree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The simplest solution to two problems may not be the most elegant. Or, McCree and Reyes are trapped in the tundra, and their solutions are very limited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrum

Fourth grade science class taught Jesse McCree that the most inhospitable environment to be trapped in was the desert. Fourth grade science class was full of shit, McCree thinks, as he shivers violently next to the fire, huddled so close he’s in danger of catching ablaze. The most inhospitable environment to be trapped in is the Siberian tundra, especially in the winter, and _especially_ during a record-breaking blizzard.

McCree isn’t a pessimistic man (not yet at least), but to be fair there’s very little to be hopeful about when he’s been stuck in a cave for the past five days with a very angry Commander Reyes, in a storm so bad the planes can’t hope to fly.  The bullet wound just above his left wrist isn’t helping either, though McCree is doing his best not to think about that. Hell, it’s almost stopped hurting now, though he’s not going to undo the wrappings and check on it.

The most embarrassing thing about this, the most humiliating part, was just how poorly this mission went. Blackwatch missions were always inherently risky, but as far as stings went, this one wasn’t even supposed to be that bad. Root out a couple of Russian omnic reprogrammers, take the malicious code they were using to corrupt systems, and skedaddle back to HQ.  

All the information they had on this small group was that they were nothing but a couple of arms dealers out to prolong the war. No indication that they’d be well-funded, or well-established, or well-anything’d. Nothing that two people couldn’t handle. At the time, McCree had been overjoyed that Commander Reyes had picked him for the mission. Now, pulling his coat closer to his body and staring at the raging storm outside, he’s not so sure.

Next to him, Reyes curses and yells at his crackling communicator, static so thick that if there’s someone speaking on the other end, they can’t be heard through it. Eventually, Reyes just turns it off, the red battery-low light flashing. McCree’s own communicator had run out of battery two days ago. Out in the landscape of ice and snow, there’s nowhere to charge it.

“How’s your arm?” Reyes asks.

“Fine,” McCree responds, holding his bundled arm a little closer. It’s not his arm that’s bothering him anymore - it’s the cold. He’s shivering as he’s next to the fire but he’s still sweating, icy-cold beads running from his temples.

“Let me see,” Reyes says. McCree hesitates, but Reyes repeats the order in his commander voice and McCree instantly responds, holding his bundled arm out.

“How long since you changed the dressing?”

There’s not much material on their persons (the current cloth is McCree’s bandana, which was hard enough to give up in this godforsaken iceland), and Reyes knows most of their supplies were left back in the overtaken plane, ten kilometers north.

McCree wets his dry lips. “Four days,” he croaks, and honestly it sounds bad but the pain had ebbed away three days ago, so why fix what wasn’t broken, right?

“Jesus Christ,” Reyes says. He starts unwrapping the dressing, frown growing deeper. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” He mutters, as he peels away the lowest layer - or he thinks it’s the lowest layer; the cloth and McCree’s skin are hard to tell apart at this point. “You’re so fucking stupid. Did you sleep through every basic combat first aid class you had to take?”

McCree wants to remind him that he never took any of the required military classes, due to being drafted in under special circumstances. But he bites his tongue and looks away from his own arm, because if he opens his mouth right now he’ll probably vomit.

(There’s nothing but stomach acid to hurl, because neither of them have eaten in the past five days, but he feels queasy anyway and decides it’s best not to tempt fate.)

“It’s infected, you fucking moron,” Reyes tells him. “No wonder you’re sitting there shivering and sweating, you have a fever.”

“It’s fine,” McCree insists. “Just looks bad, leave it alone.”

Reyes ignores him and tears off a relatively clean piece of the bandanna. He loops it around above the elbow and ties it tight. McCree isn’t _that_ stupid; he knows a tourniquet when he sees one.

“No!” he yelps, trying to pull away. But Reyes has an iron grip on his upper arm, and McCree is too weak to fight him. “C-Commander, please,” he tries instead, eyes fixated on the combat knife Reyes is passing through the flames. “Please!” His voice reaches a hysterical pitch as Reyes squeezes his elbow, lining up the blade.

“Please what? Please save your life?” Reyes growls. “I’m trying to. Stay still.”

McCree tries something else. “That’s too much!” He howls. “It’s - it’s only infected near the bottom, there’s still plenty of good arm there goin’ to waste-”

“You want me to try and cut through bone?” is the retort. McCree doesn’t respond, letting out a sob instead because it IS as bad as it looks, probably worse, and with it exposed to the cold air  the pain is seeping through his carefully-constructed painkiller haze. Reyes continues, voice carrying that tone of command again. “Stay. Still.”

McCree instantly stops struggling, though he can’t help how much he’s hyperventilating, tears beginning to pour down his face. His arm is tense in Reyes’s grip. The blade lifts into the air and McCree screams, instinct forcing him to try and pull away.

Reyes lets out a disgusted sound and, miraculously, lets him go. He sets down the blade and McCree scurries away, almost falling onto his arm in his haste to get away from the fire.

“McCree,” Reyes says. He’s picking something up out of McCree’s bag - McCree sees the glint of gold and realizes it’s his own belt, the bold letters mocking him as they reflect the flickering flames.

“Please,” McCree whimpers, backing up further into the corner of the cave. His heart is thrumming like a hummingbird’s, pupils pinpricks against his irises. For a moment he thinks Reyes is staring at him like a predator, like a tiger about to pounce. But he blinks, and the illusion disappears.

Reyes sighs. “Jesse,” he says, and McCree trembles. “Jesse, come here.”

He’s exhausted - they both are - and it shows in his voice. He holds out a hand and beckons him over - an invitation this time, not an order. McCree whimpers again but slowly uncurls, crawling forward on his knees and his good arm until he’s close enough again to the fire to feel the heat rolling off of it.

“Atta boy,” Reyes tells him. “That’s a good boy,” he continues, using one hand to comb back McCree’s sweat-slicked hair and the other to fit the leather belt in McCree’s mouth, the buckle heavy against his cheek. Reyes pulls him to a sitting position, coaxing his arm away from where it’s pressed tight against his chest.

He squeezes the area above the tourniquet and runs the blade through the fire one last time. McCree looks away but bites down on the belt, teeth digging into leather.

Reyes raises the blade. “If you piss yourself, try not to get it on my boots,” he growls, and brings the knife down in one quick motion.

McCree tries to follow the order. He blacks out as soon as the knife slices into his skin.

<><><>

His arm is burning. McCree jerks awake at the feeling of fire on his skin, sizzling to a crisp. He jolts his arm away but it’s lighter than he last remembered; he stares, in confusion and disbelief, as his arm ends at the elbow in a bundle of ripped-up cloth. He tries to wiggle his fingers, but his fingers aren’t there. The cloth doesn’t move.

Heart hammering, McCree sits up, eyes automatically looking towards the only source of light, the fire that Reyes is staring into. There’s dried blood splattered down the front of his coat and pants. It’s pitch-black outside, but the wind is still howling.

“Water,” Reyes says, pointing without looking at him. He’s prodding something in the fire. McCree follows the finger and sees his canteen sitting next to him, and only then he realizes just how parched he is. He reaches for it with both hands but only grabs it with one, almost knocking it over in his confusion.

McCree upends it in his mouth, guzzling the water down with deep gulps. He drains it in one go and tries to wipe his mouth with his left forearm, only to bring the stump up to his face.

“Shit,” he says, and tries not to throw up. Drinking the water that fast was probably a mistake, but he’d been so thirsty - at least that was one advantage of the tundra against the desert, an almost-endless supply of water, if you were willing to drink it.

“Hungry?” Reyes asks. McCree snaps his head up as his stomach growls. Maybe while he was out they’d finally had a stroke of luck, a hare or a rat trying to take shelter from the storm. He hears the crackle and pop of meat in the fire, and he can’t help the flood of saliva in his mouth as he nods hard enough to make his head spin.

Reyes grins at him, which is his first sign that something’s wrong, and pulls what he was poking at out of the fire. McCree sees the outline of fingers and his arm flares into pain. His mouth fills with saliva again but this time he turns to the side and vomits, regurgitated water and stomach acid splattering on the ground next to him.

Over the sound of retching, McCree can hear Reyes laughing. “Weren’t you worried before about, what was it, ‘plenty of good arm going to waste’? Pretty good solution to that AND our food problems, don’t you think?”

McCree’s stomach rolls every time he tries to look over. He can’t respond right now, too busy focusing on breathing between heaves. He jolts as a bolt of pain runs up what’s left of his arm. Looking over, he sees Reyes’s sharp teeth sink into the meaty part of his forearm (it’s not his any more, a part of him tries to reason - but no, it _is_ , a different part argues, it’s not attached to his elbow but it’s still _his arm_ ) and his mind swirls; someone must have pressed the mute button on the world because the sound disappears even though the picture’s still playing; he’s watching Reyes pull apart the meat and chew; his mind is banging on the glass screaming, but his body is caught by the pause button, frozen in place.

He sees Reyes walking over to where he’s sitting. Feels Reyes’s weight on his legs as he straddles him with those thick thighs McCree had always dreamed about being between. Smells the fragrance of fire-cooked meat. If he’d never seen what it was, he could make himself believe it WAS just a hare or a rat or anything, honestly, _anything_ would be better than this.

Reyes reaches out and grabs McCree’s chin, tilting his head up. It’s almost tender, the way that Reyes’s thumb brushes along McCree’s bottom lip before rubbing at his jaw. It’s almost romantic, the way Reyes leans down and covers McCree’s mouth with his own, until McCree realizes that he’d been watching Reyes chew, but never saw him swallow.

Volume roars back into the world as McCree realizes what’s happening. He reflexively opens his mouth to scream but his voice catches in a strangled burble as chewed up meat (not just any meat, a part of his mind desperately fizzles, but he can’t call it anything but ‘meat’ at this point) gets pushed onto his tongue. Reyes won’t let him spit it back out. Reyes won’t let him breathe. Reyes won’t let him go.

McCree moves it to the back of his throat and swallows, and Reyes finally breaks contact and sits back onto McCree’s thighs. He bites off another piece but wolfs it down himself as McCree struggles not to vomit again.

His stomach roils, but not out of nausea. It’s growling. It’s reminding him that it’s been five days since he last ate, and he’ll need energy if he wants to recover. It’s worriedly whispering to him that it might be many more days before they’ll be rescued. It’s telling him, despite all pretenses, that he wants more.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say anything. Reyes is already tearing off another piece. He doesn’t chew it; this time, he makes McCree lean forward and take it out of his mouth. The next chunk disappears down his throat. The fifth one, McCree pulls from between his teeth before he’s even done breaking it off.

This is depraved. It’s disgusting. McCree can’t get enough. He hardly feels the cold now; with Reyes pressing down on him, their lips and teeth clashing in something McCree would never dare consider a kiss, his blood is beating white hot, like molten lava, like the blade of the combat knife passing through the flames. The meat isn’t cooked all the way through; the skin is charred, crisping between his molars, but the meat is still bloody and raw, tough enough that his jaw is sore from chewing and his throat is weak from swallowing. Their lips and teeth are stained red, and Reyes has dried blood matted in his moustache and beard, and McCree desperately wants to reach up and lick it off. It’s the worst thing he’s ever eaten. It’s the best experience he’s ever had.

Reyes pulls one last piece of meat off of the bone and throws (the arm, _his_ arm) the remains to the side. It’s McCree’s turn, but he doesn’t have the energy to reach up to take it. Reyes chews this one and tilts McCree’s chin up again, pressing their mouths together again to pass the meat into McCree’s mouth. He runs his thumb over McCree’s jugular, massaging the final bite down.

McCree lays back down on the floor, heart beating in his temples. He can feel Reyes’s fingers through his hair, smearing soot and gore into his scalp.

“Atta boy,” Reyes growls. “That’s a good boy.”

Reyes looks down at him with blood caked around on his mouth, like a predator that’s just killed his prey. McCree’s pupils are pinpricks. His heart thrums in his chest like a hummingbird’s. He reaches up and swipes some blood off of Reyes’s lips, licking it from the pad of his thumb with a trembling tongue.


End file.
